Nell felt terribly excited. She glanced often at Denis, who looked gay and debonnair enough.
The two next speeches were not so good; in both there was a stiffness of phrase that made her put them aside with a metaphoric wave of her hand. Then came the poetic Morley's turn. He was inclined to be grandiloquent, he brought in a great many poetical quotations, his metaphors were inclined to run away with him; but he used fervid gestures, he flung back his hair a good deal, and people seemed enthusiastic.
Nell felt uneasy; she did not herself care for his speech, but she recognised a good deal of merit in it.
Ted Lancaster was the next.
He rose and strolled slowly to the end of the room.
"Isn't he at his ease!" laughed Gertrude.
Nell was conscious of a quick, uncharitable wish that his speech should be bad—bad—that he should receive hardly any applause—that that conceited ease of his should be ruffled—upset. He bowed to his audience. A little hot spasm of shame went through her. Surely—surely he was nervous! His face was quite white, and his eyes stared out sombrely from beneath frowning brows.
"The Influence of Music on Mankind," he announced in his deep, quiet voice. He paused, looked down, then straight out before him again.
"It is impossible," he began, "to exaggerate—" his eyes met Nell's, he stumbled, stopped—"to exaggerate—er—er—the important part that—that music—that music—has played in the—er—history of the world—"
Nell was tingling all over with shame and pity; her cheeks burnt; she bit her lip cruelly. She could see his hand, resting on the top of the Grand piano beside him, shake; and then suddenly, abruptly, in the middle of a sentence, he bowed and strolled back to his seat.